While this sinks in, I take a bite of pulpo and try to ignore the texture of the literal tentacle in my mouth, the way the suction cups attempt to latch on to my tongue in the process. I chase it with a generous sip of my wine and begin to wonder if I’ll be able to make this glass last all the way through dinner after all.
“That’s good to hear,” Sheridan says. “We don’t want to lose momentum, like Freddie said. But two albums in three years has been… strenuous.”
From what Fiona hinted at during our last call, it was more than strenuous. I get the sense there’s been a lot of discord among the band members ever since they launched their sophomore album. Touring hasn’t helped, because it never does. Artists always come off tour underfed and sleep-deprived.
The server returns to take our entrée orders, and I wait for her to leave before continuing my pitch:
“I think it’s smart that you don’t want to keep fans waiting too long, but you need to be strategic, and make sure the entire team is happy with where the album is at before we launch.”
Freddie shares a look with the others, before leaning forward to rest his tattooed forearms against the table. “We just want to be sure you mean what you say. That there won’t be drama down the line if one person at the label doesn’t like a song, or a cover concept, or whatever else.”
“That’s understandable.” I match Freddie’s posture, perching my wrists on top of the table. “My priority is to help you put out the best album possible, and I promise to do everything in my power to give you guys back some control—of pace and decision-making.”
“Well, in that case…” Sheridan smirks at the others before continuing: “Now seems like a good time to mention we plan to announce who we’re signing with at the wrap party.”
I blink. Turn to Fiona and blink again. Back when I tried to sign Dempsey the first time, Fiona was still green. Dempsey was the only band she managed at the time, and in meetings she never concealed her emotions. But now we’re all older and more seasoned and her face has become impossible to read.
I know Fiona is in my corner—we kept in touch over the years, and she remembers how hard I fought for Dempsey before. She did me a solid, tipping me off months ago that Dempsey would be looking to move on once their current deal was up. But this is the third meeting I’ve had with the band since Fiona reached out, and it’s the first time they’ve indicated a decision date. Which, evidently, is tomorrow night.
“Wow. Well, that’s exciting.” My pulse kicks up a notch,and I work to keep my voice level and calm. “Not that I wasn’t already excited to come to your show.”
Tomorrow marks the final show of their monthslong tour. I anticipated it being a blowout, celebrating not only the end of their tour but the official end of their contract with Sin City Sound. But I can’t say I expected them to finalize their next move so soon.
I glance around the table at each of them in turn. Curtis is predictably drumming his fingers against the wood, nodding along to the beat inside his head. I am only half-convinced he’s following our conversation. Ralph is still eating pulpo with a blissed-out expression, but flashes me a smile once he swallows his bite. Freddie seems quietly content as well, slouched back against the luxe velvet booth again, the picture of someone who’s well aware the world is his oyster.
I’m not naive enough to think I’m the only rep Dempsey has met with. I’m sure they’ve had plenty of interest, from every major label out there. But for the first time, I let myself believe I have this in the bag.
Our food arrives, and I dial back on the hard sell, and between bites I ask about the songs they’ve written and visions for their next album, what they’d like to do differently next time in terms of promotion.
By the time our plates are cleared, I’m buzzing with endorphins and the exact right amount of wine. I feel like I could sprint all the way back to my hotel, devil shoes be damned.
While I wait for the server to return with my company card, I allow my gaze to wander. This place is bougie enough to attract a certain crowd—namely, celebrities and people whoare willing to pay exorbitant amounts of money for the chance to be in close proximity to celebrities. I’ve lived in LA for long enough now that I consider myself somewhat immune to the thrill of a celebrity sighting, never mind that it’s patently uncool to be caught staring at anyone famous, so when I cast a look around the room it’s more perfunctory than anything. Until my eyes land on one familiar face in particular.
Adam Shaw is sitting across the room at the bar. I look away before he spots me, instinctively slouching a bit in my seat before realizing how unattractive that posture will make me look. I straighten again and sign the bill with a flourish as soon as it’s placed in front of me. But even as I make small talk with the group as they finish their drinks, I can’t stop myself from surreptitiously glancing at Adam every few seconds until, inevitably, I look up to find him already watching me. I tense, half expecting him to immediately come over, but the only reaction he gives me is a slight nod. As minutes pass and he stays seated, I’m able to incrementally relax.
It’s not easy to ignore his presence, though, especially because I can’t shake the suspicion it’s no coincidence, him being here.
I pull my phone out and shoot off a text to my assistant, Nora:
Any idea why a rep from Exeter would be at this restaurant?
Despite the late hour, she replies almost immediately:
???
I drop my phone back into my bag and down the dregs of my wine. I can feel the faint vibrations of my assistant texting a couple more times, but don’t bother to read her messages, because now Adam actually is making his way over.
As if it’s not bad enough for a rep from another label to be interrupting this meeting, of course it has to be someone from Exeter who was there to witness it when my life blew up four years ago. And of course it has to beAdam, who has already stolen one recording artist from me this past year.
“Eleanor. Long time no see.”
My shoulders tighten, and I consciously force them to relax. To make myself look laid-back and unfazed. “Of all the steak houses in all the towns,” I bite out. I shake the hand he offers, squeezing as hard as I dare. “What brings you to Vegas?”
Adam offers an easy shrug. “Meeting someone for dinner.”
“Small world.”
His hazel eyes flicker around the table, then return to hold my gaze, expectant. This fucking guy.
